The Things We Didn't Say
by chibiMuffin999
Summary: Set immediately after The Reichenbach Fall: Mycroft Holmes strong-arms a grieving John Watson into a conversation about the late Sherlock Holmes. Truths are revealed, unspoken words are made clear, and work begins on clearing the name of the world's only Consulting Detective. (LIGHT JOHNLOCK) This is NOT a JohnxMycroft story. No offense if that's your ship, but it's NOT mine.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's note: There's a little bit of strong language in this story. It's not a running theme, but you have been warned._**

* * *

Mycroft glanced up from his desk, a massive oak affair, stained some manner of dark mahogany. A stocky blonde man was being escorted in by a harried looking security officer in a suit. Mycroft waved the security man away disinterestedly, not missing the heavy relief on the man's face at being quickly dismissed. The door closed solidly behind him, and his just-a-little-too-quick footsteps retreated to stand guard at the end of the hall. John was in a mood, then.

"John, welcome. Have a seat." He finished with the documents he'd been reviewing, and stood, indicating a padded office chair beside his desk.

The man just stood there, glaring through him, stone faced and pointedly ignoring the offer. The chair in question received not so much as a cursory glance. Mycroft sighed under his breath, moving to stand beside the desk instead, and waited.

"What the hell are you playing at?" John's voice was tightly controlled, almost completely devoid of tone - but Mycroft was sure he could hear the violence that was struggling to escape, buried somewhere under all this strenuous self-discipline.

He smiled thinly; well aware it did not in any way reach his eyes. He hadn't intended it to. John Watson didn't trust him, and rightly never had. He didn't need to pander to the man now.

"Nothing. I simply wanted to speak with you and you've been less than reachable of late." He gestured to the upholstered desk-chair again. "Please. Sit."

"No."

A hint of steel and general ill-will had seeped past John's practiced military facade and into his voice. He was fighting the urge to cross the distance between them, and one hand unconsciously clenched and unclenched in a semi-steady rhythm as he wrestled with himself. So far, he'd succeeded far better than he'd expected.

"John…"

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Well _I_ have something to say to _you_." Mycroft had almost forgotten just why his brother had gotten on so well with John in the first place. The two of them were a match made in stubborn, pig-headed, bloody-minded heaven.

"How nice for you." The blonde turned on his heel, apparently feeling himself losing the battle for self-control. It wouldn't be the first time Mycroft had watched John storm out of this room in a dangerous rage, and he doubted it'd be the last. John reached for the doors without looking back. "I don't want to hear it."

"It relates to Sherlock." Mycroft didn't even have to look up from the spot of rug he'd been studying a little too closely to know that the words had hit their mark. The steady marching steps stopped uncertainly.

* * *

John struggled with himself. He wanted to leave. He didn't want to indulge any more of Mycroft's nonsense head games and power plays. But something feral tried to claw its way out of his chest anytime Sherlock was mentioned, and he just couldn't resist the bait. He turned and marched back the way he'd come.


	2. Chapter 2

"Alright you heartless bastard" He spat, dropping angrily into the offered chair so hard that it creaked violently in protest. "_What?_"

"Temper, John." Mycroft remarked mildly, drawing two folders off of his desk with a carefully practiced casual air. A wild flicker of hope emerged in John, but he squashed it. Sherlock was dead. He'd seen the body and had even helped carry the casket, numb as he was. There was no way to ignore the evidence of his own eyes… not this time.

The folders were handed over without any further explanation. He flicked them open curiously, and began to skim through the pages. He frowned, going from confused to annoyed to furious when he realized they contained nothing but information about bloody Irene Addler and her interactions with Sherlock. As if this was in any way relevant or useful to anything. Did Mycroft simply get off on seeing him suffer? Wasn't his existing PTSD quite enough to entertain the sadistic bastard?

He flung them back in Mycroft's general direction, not caring if the contents spilled across the floor. He spitefully hoped they would. Mycroft surprised him by catching them neatly out of the air. John hadn't thought him capable of it, but then again, who ever knew what a Holmes was capable of? He certainly hadn't, and look how he'd ended up…

"_This_? _This_ is what was so damned important, you had to abduct me off the street?! I was _THERE_ Mycroft, thanks. I caught it the first go 'round." He started to rise, anger and frustration getting the better of him. If he was going to dissolve into a ball of misery and grief, he sure as hell wasn't going to do it in front of the bastard who'd made it all possible. He didn't even know why he'd come in the first place.

In truth, Mycroft hadn't really so much abducted him as simply harassed him until he gave in. John, already barely making it through each day, had gotten tired of trying to explain to people who were already concerned about him why he was being followed by dodgy looking black sedans everywhere he went. He was sure if he'd mentioned them to his therapist (who he'd given up on again after only two more sessions) she'd have had him committed at once.

He had also, he admitted to himself, somewhat hoped he _would_ snap and have the chance to beat the daylights out of Mycroft the-traitorous-bastard Holmes. That would be a hell of a lot more therapeutic than sitting in an arm-chair talking to a woman who didn't know the first damned thing about how he felt, but smiled that fake little smile and told him she understood. He didn't hate Ella. He just couldn't stand to talk to her anymore. Mycroft… yeah he hated Mycroft. He was pretty solid on that.

"As my brother would say: As ever you see, but do not observe." Mycroft calmly tidied the papers until they were perfectly neatened again. John glared at him with as much heat and hatred as he could muster.

"_Oh_? And what _precisely_ am I meant to observe? That you set him up with a sadist in underpants, and she messed him around and almost broke his heart (_yes, he does bloody __**have**__ one_) before she died somewhere? Yeah, got that part, didn't miss it. Oh, or do you mean the part where _that_ was all your fault too?" John's shoulders were drawn into a sharp, crisp line and his chest heaved with the effort of controlling himself. He was a hair's-breadth from crossing the line.

"You are meant to observe the last page of this file." Mycroft ignored his outburst mildly, holding up the folder in question. John hadn't gotten quite that far into it. "But to divert for a moment, what you say is true. My brother had a heart. A carefully guarded one, it's true, but unfortunately rather vulnerable. He was no sociopath. That-" He gestured dismissively, "-was a self-diagnosis that I never saw fit to challenge."

"Yeah, I caught that part. He was my best friend, remember?" John pointed out tersely. If this was all Mycroft had to offer him, this had been a bigger waste of his time than he'd thought. "I knew the 'sociopath' bit was rubbish after I'd lived with him inside a month."

Mycroft could help himself. He smiled slightly at that. He'd never admit it, but he rather liked Dr. Watson. The man was more astute about some things than he let on.

"Good. Good." He glanced over the page he held, but didn't hand it over just yet. "And did Sherlock ever tell you what happened the night we finally apprehended Ms. Addler? I'm referring to when he succeeded in unlocking her mobile phone, to be specific."

"He told me he cracked her code. She was sweet on him after all. Don't see what that has to do with anything." John was trying hard to decide if Mycroft was just messing with him, (and if it was worth the potential repercussions of braining him if he was), or if this actually had some sort of point it was dragging lazily towards.

"_Specifics_. Did he tell you specifics?" Mycroft already knew he hadn't. Sherlock was reticent even to recall the episode when Mycroft (who'd been present) asked him. He knew his brother hadn't said all.

"Her password was 'SHERlocked'. It's all very romantic. What has that got to do with you dragging me in here?"

"Anything else?"

John sighed. The frustration was bubbling up in him again. He pushed it down, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Just that he hated her. He'd admired her, but he hated her." John didn't add how relieved he'd been to hear it. That was none of Mycroft's bloody business.

"He mentioned you by name, shortly before he unlocked her mobile." Mycroft supplied almost casually, occupying himself with flicking back through the folder, deliberately moving slowly, taking his time. He didn't miss the abrupt stiffening of the doctor's posture, or the surprised flick of the man's eyes to the folder before they dropped to the floor again.

"Oh did he?" John couldn't quite keep the honest curiosity out of his voice. Something about this just didn't quite add up, but he wasn't sure why.

Mycroft favored him with another thin smile.

"What _was_ your relationship to my brother?"


	3. Chapter 3

"_For god's sake_ Mycroft, are you just fucking around with me now?" John was halfway out of the chair, but the surviving Holmes brother waved him back down. John sat, grudgingly.

"Bear with me. I am making a point, John." That earned him a glare that could've easily set arctic ice on fire. He chose to ignore it. John maintained a stubborn silence. _Very well then…_

"You loved my brother."

John jolted, nearly falling out of the chair. It hadn't been a question, and he wasn't sure if he was expected to reply.

"I- … what?!"

"You." Mycroft indicated him with a minute nod in his direction, "Loved. My. Brother. Come now, John, it wasn't hard to see. You were hardly as subtle as you seem to believe." John stared at him, open mouthed. "Did you never wonder exactly why every person you met assumed, without indication or confirmation, that you were sleeping together?"

"We _weren't_." John growled.

"You didn't need to be, that's hardly the point." Mycroft continued, barely acknowledging him, "Everyone who saw you together saw it immediately. Why? Because you were obvious. _He_ was obvious. It was _all_ obvious - even to the simpletons of Scotland Yard." He thought John was being rather intentionally obtuse about the whole matter. Denial could only be indulged so far.

"I- I didn't-" John sighed, giving up. There was no point in denying it now. Sherlock was dead. There was no worry about it making their friendship awkward anymore. No reason to be concerned that Sherlock didn't, (or couldn't) accept or reciprocate. It didn't matter anymore. "Fine. It's none of your bloody business, but… yeah, ok. It's true. How could I possibly _help_ but love him…?" _And I never got the chance to tell him._

The words seemed to suck the last of his anger out of him, and with it, the last of his strength. He visibly deflated, sagging into the chair as if he simply couldn't support himself a moment longer. He dropped his face into his hands and stayed there, as if holding on for dear life. Mycroft felt a tiny flicker of something like sympathy, but ignored it.

"His exact words were -." Mycroft held the page in front of him, pretending not to have noticed the miniature meltdown taking place just to his left. "- _I imagine_ _John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very distractive._" He chose to leave out the heated rant that had followed. That had been entirely leveled at Irene Addler, and he didn't want to confuse the point for an emotionally drained veteran, still recovering from watching his best-friend's suicide.

"Why… What does that have to do with-?" John couldn't summon the energy to make sense of it. He doubted he'd make heads or tails of the statement, even if he were at his best. What on earth had that meant?

"He knew." Mycroft supplied softly. "A man as observant as Sherlock Holmes? He knew. If it had bothered him, he'd have said so, John. You were very dear to him."

John didn't move, couldn't move. He'd lost the tenuous grasp he'd had on how to function and he felt lost and adrift.

Mycroft took pity on him, in spite of himself. He dropped down beside the chair, putting himself directly in front of the man's face. John glanced up wearily, too spent to even take a half-hearted swing at him.

"John… Understand this much. Sherlock knew what he meant to you. Even if you never told him, he knew it. I can't tell you why he… " He decided abruptly to be delicate, "why he did what he did… but you made his last days the better for your presence and your friendship." He didn't know where all this sentimental nonsense was coming from, but it just felt right when he said it, and John seemed to be responding. The dark blue eyes that slowly rose to meet his were still faintly lost and there was a great deal of pain behind them, but they had lost the disturbing incoherence they'd held moments ago. He didn't see a spiral into destruction lurking below the surface anymore.

"He wasn't a fraud." John's shaky voice emerged, barely loud enough to count as a whisper.

"Of course not." Mycroft stood up, gingerly resting a hand on John's shoulder. He was secretly relieved when it was not shrugged off immediately. "You know that as well as I do. And… I will help you to prove it."

John glanced up at him, traces of the old mistrust in his face.

"I made mistakes, John. I regret my part in this… situation. I cannot undo what I have done, but I can attempt to repair at least some of the damage."

John grunted, apparently more or less satisfied with his answer. It was almost a full minute before he spoke.

"Alright. Christ… alright. I can't forgive you, Mycroft - I can't. But I'll work with you. For him."

"Thank you." Mycroft risked giving the shoulder a tiny squeeze before releasing it. He wasn't much better than his brother at interacting with people, but he had some idea of what was expected in such situations. And he'd meant those two words more sincerely than John would realize for quite some time. "If you're willing, I would like to begin work tomorrow. You've had a trying day, and you'll want to rest before we begin. You'll need to be fresh for this." John nodded mutely. "It will take time, but we have the facts on our side. My brother will be remembered for what he truly was in time."

"He was a hero. At least to me." John ventured, more to himself than anyone else.

"He'd hate being called that." Mycroft was internally amused at the image of the indignant face Sherlock would have worn, had he been listening.

"I don't care anymore. He is… was."

"Go home, John. Get some rest. I'll send a car by in the morning."


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft put off returning to his work for quite some time after John straggled out of the room -escorted to the car waiting outside by the same uncomfortable looking security man that had brought him in.

He couldn't tell John why Sherlock had done it. He knew, but he couldn't tell him. Sherlock had gone through so much to make him believe the fiction… John would simply have to endure until his (possibly certifiable) flatmate returned.

Mycroft had headed off the breakdown. He'd given the broken doctor something to do, something to hope for. He'd done what he could to assuage the guilt of the words, both spoken and unspoken, left over from the fall. And, as an added gift to his brother, he'd given John a little something more.

Mycroft knew Sherlock was too clumsy with emotions to ever articulate the depth of what he felt for his friend unless prompted. And there was no telling how long he'd be away; quietly dismantling the largest and most dangerous criminal organization on earth.

If something hadn't happened quickly, before the emotional wound scarred over - before John was broken for good -then by the time Sherlock returned, there might be too much damage done to the friendship to be repaired. More importantly, even if they somehow weathered this, Sherlock would be too terrified to reveal his feelings, afraid of driving the doctor away. John would question the sincerity if he did. They'd fall apart. A safety net was needed, if either Sherlock or John were to come out of this with some of their -admittedly questionable- sanity intact.

So Mycroft had given John a nudge. He had planted a seed in the doctor's mind and stood back to let it grow. John would spend many a sleepless night considering what had happened here. It was inevitable. He would know what he felt and what he would have wanted to have with Sherlock by the time the 'dead' detective returned. Sherlock would be prompted. The long, drawn out, and frankly absurd affair of his brother's love-life would finally be settled. He did hope they'd invite him to the wedding.


End file.
